Brian Davis had a successful career in advertising journalism once; the documentary begins with him homeless in London, drunk and asking mates for money so that he can go to Paris to interview Roman Polanski. His rather rah English accent descended frequently into streams of invective. Brian, of course, is bipolar (mostly untreated) and alcoholic, poor chap. He scored 150 quid and literally ran to the Turk’s Head in Soho to drink it all. So much for Paris.

(Here be spoilers. Many spoilers. Actually, all the spoilers.)

The enigma of Brian’s life is how someone who brought perfect discipline to his writing managed to foul up everything else. Possibly the gift was so all-consuming there was nothing left over, but he was also continually dogged by catastrophe. (Bernard Barnett) source

I didn’t like him. I pitied him, but found him obnoxious – I suspect he’d be annoying in any circumstances, successful or not, drunk or not. There he was, grimly clinging to that particularly English sneer of superiority and thoroughly pissed off with everything. I wondered whether he’d show some humanity, redeem himself somehow. Maybe the grandiosity, the dreams and his sense of self should be admired though. After all, what else did he have?

Every day is a combination of French farce and Tarrantino, it’s pure Jean Luc Goddard (Brian)

Brian was right about the farce. He moves into his cousin’s place in Liverpool and is seen standing in the living room, swearing at the turntable he can’t get to play albums at anything less than 45rpm. “Aberration!” The other prime example was a woman he chatted to, telling him that she’d stolen Herman Hesse’s granddaughter’s boyfriend, Dante. It’s tragi-comic; it’s possible to laugh at the events themselves, but not at the people and circumstances involved. He struck me as a remnant of an earlier age, one that ended when the 60s did, full of sardonic existentialism and desperate fatalism. There’s a brief shot of him, lying crumpled and defeated after a night sleeping rough; the despair evident in his cry of, “help me!” is gut wrenching, and possibly the most telling moment in it all.

Disasters were starting to engulf Brian, that sad trail of “accidents” that attach themselves to drunks and crazies, like pinning the tail on the donkey, until, one day, one of them ignites, and the whole thing goes up in flames. (Mike Bygrave) source

I kicked my own ass towards some empathy; what’s the point of being human without it? “The rumpled look is in,” he grinned, and neatened his hair in the reflection of a car window. The struggle became more visible – the struggle to retain his self image, his hope. “It’s libellous to suggest I live in chaos,” he said, surrounded by it. The narrator mentioned his mood swings, but there was never an in depth look at Brian’s manic depression. The man was shown without the usual lenses of bipolar, alcoholic, homeless being applied throughout (for a change). I was reminded of wildlife programmes, where the crew documents without interference. His grip on memories of a good past and the notion of a good future grew more admirable. He brushed his hair with a toothbrush in the aftermath of a house fire, vehement that he was neither depressed nor manic. “I’m happier than I’ve been in a long time.”

Finally he accepted psychiatric help, checked into Liverpool’s Broadoak Unit and was diagnosed with hypomania (what?). Six weeks later, claiming suffocation and boredom, Brian was discharged, still railing at the world, yet showing sympathy for the other patients. A couple of weeks later, he admitted himself, then he returned to London and inevitably, though rather unexpectedly…

Remember my comment about it seeming like a hands off wildlife documentary?

Brian’s sales pitch was optimism, but his life pointed all one way, as Nath and Channel 4 must have realised at some point. In the end, he fell to his death from the roof of a cheap London hotel, Nath having done no more to prevent it than most of Brian’s “friends” (save the blessed relative who gave him his own place in Liverpool to wreck). Nath’s brutish objectivity got so close to suicidal mental illness that I wanted a futile gesture from him, at some stage, to salve the conscience of us viewers. It is a perverse tribute to his honesty that he did not provide us with one. (Andrew Billen) source

His death is still an open verdict, there’s no way of knowing whether he fell or he jumped. All anybody knows was that his last two purchases were a bottle of vodka and one of martini. It took two days for his broken body to be found in the dismal courtyard of that cheap hotel.

July has been one of those months that went slow and went fast. (Probably because we had no air conditioning for a week!) Anyway, it’s time to look over my template and see how I did on my goals.

I flossed my teeth! every night but two. I’m pretty proud of this. A little make-up and some lotion and I am really starting to do a self care routine most days. I still hate showers and put them off, but I will take one when I have to. I wish this came more casually….I still don’t understand the problem.

Exercise was a disaster as usual. However, I have lost nine pounds this month, so at least I am making progress in that area. I figure when I hit a weight plateau, I’ll get more serious about exercise. It’s a shame I hate it so much, because I know it is good for depression. I need to drink more water but I am doing an okay job on this. It’s pretty hot, but I’d still rather drink some soda or tea instead of all that water.

I stayed on my food plan 19 days. (That’s why I lost 9 pounds.) I can definitely improve that in August.

I checked out a local jobs site for the fun of it, and saw where one of my old freelance clients is hiring a full-time writer for the suburban beat. It’s so tempting to think about applying. I’m tired of not working already even though I’ve only been out of work two months. But I just don’t know if I can handle full-time work or not. That’s not true actually. I know I can’t. When I tried teaching three classes last fall, I failed miserably and felt miserable the whole time. ANd soon we’ll be busy with school stuff again and I will feel better.

I just wish bipolar disorder had never happened to me. I think about how well I was doing in my career before it did and I wonder what I could be accomplishing today almost ten years later. Occasionally I just want to kick myself for letting it all go and not trying harder to keep working. But I don’t know what else I could have done. I was trying to pivot to writing creatively full-time, but I just didn’t really have any success. Hopefully this MFA program can bring that to fruition. I need to get over my writer’s back for that to happen, though. We’ll see what happens once classes start.

I do so love giving my posts a quirky “wtf” title. Today’s is brought to you by the title of a episode of some crime show I saw on youtube. I like it.

Besides, it may end up being appropriate. My kid is playing with a glow in the dark meat cleaver I got her for Halloween years ago, thinking plastic is going to cut things up. She’s also packing her make up around in one of those velvet Crown Royal bags, which I damn well know my sister gave her because I would never pay that much for my booze. Fuck quality, give me quantity.

I broke down and showered at bedtime last night because well, it wasn’t cooled down enough and I felt icky so I mustered all my strength for the exhausting hair washing excursion. Then I took 0.5 mg Xanax and eventually fell asleep. That made 2.5 mg for the whole day (thank you dr appointment) and yet…Still took awhile to nod off. Then came the dreams. And the waking up again and again.

To add to the joy, I got water in my ear in the shower and now it won’t come out. On one hand, yay, it’s a damper on my kid’s noise. On the other, it’s like hearing everything in mono instead of stereo. Heavy metal in mono, does not want.

I feel like living dead girl. That appointment and its disappointment outcome really set me back a lot. I’d had such hope for this doctor, was being so optimistic and hopeful. See what it gets me? I felt he was dismissive yesterday, took maybe eight whole minutes with me. And no doubt the fact I had pants on and my kid was with me meant I am all cured. So frustrated. It pissed me off, never mind the factual nature of the comment, that he said it so dismissively. “Oh, you’ll enjoy things again, you don’t stay in one mood for too long.” Yep, eight months in a depression is pretty fucking mild. I’m just dramatic.

Of course, I read about what Zoe has to deal with and feel bad for even bitching because while my care is iffy, hers is just offensive to human kind.

Thing is,it’s the norm rather than the exception. For every one who gets a good mental healthcare team, there are dozens of us being given Snoopy band aids for our gaping wounds. And yet society can’t figure out why mental health problems are so prevalent and not improving.

It should piss us all off and make us angry. We’re programed to believe that because we have a mental issue, all our anger is misplaced, unhealthy, and a byproduct of our disorders. I maintain that certain things, like lackluster mental healthcare, child abuse, animal cruelty- such things should make everyone steaming mad.

I am supposed to take the car by the shop today so R can finish putting in that stereo, he ran out of connectors last night so only two speakers are connected and it needs the dash plate replaced. I’m not feeling it, of course. I need to do dishes, finish laundry, mow the lawn. And it’s already humid as fuck and I’m having trouble breathing.(Please note on the milder days, I don’t complain, but when it gets so warm I can barely breathe and have cat hair sticking to my moist skin…I am gonna bitch incessantly cos it’s just uncomfortable.)

I did something yesterday that was very liberating. I got that five bucks from R’s stepdad for burning that disc and there was a yard sale across from where we had to get cat food…So I stopped and I’ll be damned if they didn’t have the giant two foot long wooden tiki fork and spoon you put on the wall. I’d had them once before back in the past, no clue where they went. When the donor was around, I’d commented how much I wanted them again. And he got his panties in a bunch and said nooo, those are tacky. Well, I haggled with the yard sale lady, got them for a buck each, and put them on my kitchen wall. I am tacky, fuck off. It felt like finally, I’ve been able to cut loose of all his judgments and snobbery. I mean, I’ve been doing what I want all along for the most part, but this particular act of “rebellion” felt damned good. I like what I like, who gives a damn if it’s tacky. My first husband had beer lights and mirrors and have naked beer chick posters and these awful bull horns mounted above the bed…I didn’t like it, cos it wasn’t my thing, but we agreed to disagree. The donor just felt so judgey, I felt like I had to adapt to his tastes. Now I just need a fucking spork to go with ’em :) LONG LIVE TACKINESS.

It’s kind of like the idgets who make snarky comments about the rock posters on my walls. “You’re not a teenager, when are you gonna grow up?”

Never. Is never good for you? I like ’em, it’s who I’ve always been, ‘cos I love rock n roll. Yeah, I’m 42, big fucking deal. My mom is 65 and her room is a damned Elvis shrine. Not all of us want perfectly coordinated duck patterns or cow everything. My eclectic mix of used kitsch is fun for me. Who does it hurt?

It feels good. I broke free of the emotional stuff with the donor a couple of months after he was gone. Never liked him anyway, always found him snobby and fake, my gut knew he was not my kind of people. I’ve railed endlessly about his abandoning Spook and once again, that should make anyone angry. You leave your partner, you don’t abandon your own flesh and blood. But the rest…I didn’t even miss him, I was relieved once he was gone. And now…It feels like I’ve even cut loose all his judgments that made me so ill at ease and probably sparked me judging him back.

Now for the next chapter, which terrifies me. R has been bitching at me incessantly the last four years to go after the donor, mercilessly, for child support. I tried the paperwork once, but I missed a deadline and I was just a mess, so I let it slide while the depression raged. After that, it was just like, ya know, when I signed her up for public aid, they assured me if he was working, he’d be paying, they just let them go four or five years until it adds up to a certain amount. Between R and my dad nagging on me, I was rebelling and in denial that I needed to take care of it. Always hoping he’d do the right thing without a court having to tell him to.

Last week, after R bitched at me some more, I used his printer and went to the state website and printed out the papers. For the last week, they’ve been sitting there. Because I know what the donor said about his other kids. If he wasn’t paying, he had no right to see them. If he does pay, then he expects to see them. Well, after four years and all his sociopathic mind games, and my current less than stellar mind frame…I’m petrified to open that door. And I’ve already told R that he’s gonna be the go between because I absolutely cannot deal with The Donor. It’s not some petty hate thing or jealousy that he replaced me a younger more mousy model to dote on his every word. It’s because he has always played mind games, and used my condition against me, to distort things to the point I had to take notes cos I thought I was making shit up and losing my mind.

But it’s not about me, it’s about Spook and I am gonna have to put on the big girl panties and handle the paperwork soon. I don’t see how it will help much, as he’s kind of transient. He works, but he changes jobs a lot, he’s known for ditching town when life gets “too depressing”. He’s not dependable, even if it comes out of his check. If he quits that job and it takes awhile for him to find another or he leaves the state…It’s just one more can of stressful worms I avoid because I’m already so clusterfucked. No excuse, just an explanation, and one I think makes absolute sense.

Still, pen and paper are avoiding each other.I am just better without him in our lives. And besides, he’s had four years where he could have placed a call, come to the door, even mailed her a birthday gift. He has chosen not to be involved, to not even pretend to care. I kept my address and all my numbers and emails the same, so I couldn’t be accused of keeping him from contacting her. He, on the other hand, stomped on his phone the night he broke up with me with a phone call and gave no forwarding address or new number. I think he’s a sociopath. I may be uneven but I feel guilty for being shitty to people. That makes me superior to him. Not in a snotty way, just…Oh, whatever.

When I sat down to write this like, eighty minutes ago, it was supposed to be a silly vapid “let me vent” short post. Not my strong suit, writing short posts. It’s like a Billy Mays commercial…”Call in the next ten minutes to get your free shipping….BUT WAIT, THERE’S MORE!”

It occurred to me last night that I sent off my disability review papers at the end of February. Now it’s basically August and not a single fucking word. I know government moves at the speed of a stone statue, but still. The waiting is interminable. Cruel, for someone with an anxiety disorder and a kid to support. Knowing this current doctor probably won’t support my claim because of his apathy and dismissal has me gnawing my nails. Figuratively, since nail biting isn’t one of my bad habits. I just want to know, yay or fucking nay. Rip that goddamn bandage off. If they cancel me out…I’m gonna fight it. Not sure how to get by in the meantime as I’d rather live in a cardboard box than have to crash on a couch at one of the parents’ house…But I see enough every day in this town, people faking injuries, drawing disability, yet spending every dime on booze, drugs, partying. It’s disgusting. I’ve made every damned effort. I mean, 22 years of fucking doctors and meds and therapists and all their stupid little methods that don’t work. I have done everything I am supposed to do. I even track it every day with this blog. I get out of the house, I try to interact with others, force myself to do things, get my kid cared for and off to school, and now I’ve even found an amazing support system here on wordpress that has helped immensely in keeping me fighting the long depression and all the med nightmares…

I will not sit idly by while others abuse the system. In fact, I’ll probably be out with the video camera,catching all these fakers and their partying. I don’t party. I haven’t had a date in four years. I don’t go to concerts even though I love music. I have a legit illness. It makes me homicidal to think of all these people who don’t and are living it up. Mood providing, if I am canceled, I’m launching all out war.

And ya know, it’s not just people on social security disability. One of the worst offenders I’ve seen is this guy that hangs out with my brother in law. Complete and utter stoner who’d pop algae cleaner tablets if told it’d get him buzzed. He was in the army, great job, great income, got to travel, had a nice car…And then he decided he didn’t like not being able to get high and play X Box when it suited him so he did this whole mental breakdown bit. He gets discharged, hefty pension every month, no effort to find work, just lives with his grandparents, spends all the money on pot, and half lives at my mom’s playing video games with brother in law. That is sickening. This is the loser who calls me or shows up at my door a few times a year either looking for an easy lay (gotta love the reverberation from manic days when I did such shit) or asking if I have any heavy duty painkillers because “Niki always has drugs.”

Correction: Niki always had anti depressants and mood stabilizers. Last prescription painkiller I had was right after Spook was born and it was just a beefed up version of ibuprofen. I have never been one for pain killers, they make me loopy. Aside from when I had all my dental problems and had to have Tylenol with codeine, I don’t even remember having strong pain killers.Just goes to show how delusional some people are.

Oh, I just got my call to put one more spoke in the anxiety cycle, from her school. On line registration is open. I pre-registered her in June. Now I have to do it again, and I don’t remember my username and password for their website. Then I’ll have to go by the school to drop off the paper. Then on the 13th is open house night and you’re supposed to have all their school supplies by then. And I have yet to get her birthday present, and cough up the money for last year’s tech fee, plus this year’s as well.

Guess I won’t be getting any decent razors again this month and will have to continue maiming my bite laden legs with the twin blade 10 cent a razor weed whackers. I’m not a princess, I swear, but it just fucking hurts…

I could probably go on some more but I won’t. I just needed a good vent and purge. Now back to my new hobby of sweating my ass off (yet my ass never gets any smaller). Much like getting my head shrunk never seems to make my mental issues shrink any smaller.

Oh, and to add to my tragedy…Diane went and road a Giraffe through a grocery without me yesterday! (Don’t ask, it’s just funny.)

So Thursday I did a lot. Much more than I would usually do. Much more outside our home. Off the couch. In the community. Among colleagues and friends. What did I do, you wonder? Well, to start with I volunteered from 9:30 am to 2:30 pm at my local NAMI Orange County.

I assisted their Educational Programs Coordinator by making phone calls and sending emails to register participants in an upcoming Provider Education course. Come January 2016, I will be teaching a Provider Education course for the first time. Both looking forward to it and feel a bit nervous.

While at NAMI, I spoke to their Volunteer Coordinator about helping out with social media and marketing in preparation for the October NAMIWalks for Orange County. As the time approaches, I’ll be begging folks to sponsor me. Please support me. My fundraising page is: namiwalks.nami.org/kittomalley.

Now, instead of applying for a paid job at NAMI, I offered to volunteer two days a week. That way, I’d ease myself back into the world outside my house and off of my couch. Since my husband works and I receive disability, I do not need to work full-time, and quite frankly, social stimulation triggers hypomania and subsequent exhaustion in me.

After volunteering during the day, I had enough time to come home and quickly check my email and Twitter and Facebook notifications. Then I was off to a fundraising event for a friend of mine who has survived breast cancer and raises money for Susan G. Komen for the Cure.

Now that I’m at home typing, I realize that I want to write more and read fewer blogs. My mental health requires that I stop overextending myself on social media. I want to use it as a useful tool without feeling obligated to read and share so much content. I simply CANNOT continue at this pace for so many hours a day. I absolutely must write more and read less.

Honestly, I’m at the point where reading autobiographical material detailing bipolar symptoms triggers me. In doing so, I re-experience my highs, my lows, my psychosis, my mixed states, my rapid cycling. I must be more judicious in my choice of reading material. I need an escape from bipolar disorder. I may have to severely curtail my reading of other mental health blogs, and instead enjoy some good novels.

I still want to share great content. I still want to maintain my online friendships. I’m honored to be part of such a mutually supportive online community. I hope that I will not lose my cyber friends by not reading and commenting on their work. Unfortunately, that’s a risk I take in curtailing my reading and commenting.

So many bloggers produce so much great work. I’m just blown away by how many talented writers are out there telling their stories. But, I need to step forward, to move on. Not to stop blogging, for I enjoy doing so. Not to stop sharing great information. Not to stop supporting others. But, to curtail my reading of potentially triggering material. To move past focusing on bipolar disorder and mental illness. To allow my mind a rest. To allow my mind to travel to fictional, fantasy places where it has NOT been. To feel free.

One step at a time. Get out more. Socialize more. Isolate less. Do more. Sit less. Read a good novel.

If you’ve ever heard me say “Just peachy, thanks,” and really listened, you would have heard sarcasm dripping from every syllable. Hiding my mental illness (although sometimes I do) has nothing to do with this phenomenon, I think it’s possibly human nature. As a society, I think we have become numb to the questions and ensuing answers relating to our health and wellness. “Hi, how are you?” has turned into more of a greeting than an actual question, it usually sounds like all one word, especially when said while the speaker is still walking. It has gone the way of “Have a nice day (ugh)” and “What’s new?” Rarely will I give an honest answer, because I don’t believe the person asking actually cares. Not to say we are an uncaring people, it’s just what it is. On the other side of the coin, I won’t ask the question if I don’t really want to know exactly how you are honestly feeling.

Before memes and the internet, during group therapy I learned that FINE can be an acronym: Fucked-up Insecure Neurotic Emotionally-unstable. Over the years it has evolved into a few different meanings, and quite often used jokingly. That one little word can be weighted with so much emotion just by the sound of our voice.

In my doodle, I tried to think of all the things I’ve said in response to such a query, I’m sure these aren’t all of them, feel free to add your own in the comments.

Fanfuckingtastic

Not too bad

I’m surviving

I’m still kicking/alive

No worries

Once in a while I’ll throw in a “I’m feeling quite horrible, but thank you for asking,” just to see what type of reaction I’ll get.

What would happen if we all paused a moment, looked someone in the eyes, and meaningfully asked “How are you?” Maybe we could slow down with our busy lives, take a moment to step out of our own heads and problems, and really stop to listen how a co-worker, friend, neighbor, or family member really feels. Perhaps we could change the current state of humanity into a more caring environment, one kindness at a time.

Remember I suggested we do self portraits? I’ve received one and there are a couple more on the way and I’ve decided that no matter how many or few there are in the end, I’m gonna post them under a fiendishly clever password. The only people to get the password, will be the people who did portraits – I think that’s fair, don’t you? Of course, a self portrait can be as clear or obscure as you want. For example, I don’t intend to show my face online, because you’ll all feel intimidated by how devastatingly good looking I am I don’t want to crack mirrors and cause screams and projectile vomit. I’ve done mine already, by the way. If you think about what represents you, the youness of you (ohai Doctor Seuss), it can be done using anydamnthing you like, and it can park anywhere it wants along the simple – complex spectrum. Hahaha let’s pathologise the world, blah. Send me an email via my contact page if you’re keen, send me tissues to weep into if you’re not. As long as I know who you are (so I can hand over the password), you can stay anonymous if you wanna.

Still on the subject of passwords, I’ve decided I want to password protect my more personal blog posts. Also, there will be a samurai at the door, looking fierce. I’m happy to give you the password, because I want to share my whining (you lucky, lucky people). Shoot me a mail and assuming I know who you are and that you’re someone I converse with, I’ll mail you the password. Now it sounds like I’ll post exciting things, but I won’t… it’ll be the same old blah, bitching and moaning. I used the word ‘secrets’ in the title purely for the alliteration. Haha I’m gonna die of shame if nobody wants it. Scientologists, homophobes and the anti-psychiatry brigade need not apply. Erm, even if we know each other well, I’m not gonna assume you want access to my drivel, so just ask if you do. *karate bow*

Oh my fucking blog, what a self important and pompous post this is. Sadly, at anything less than melancholic depression, those are my default settings. Brb going to let some air out.

Yep, I am watching a documentary on haunted Baltimore and it made reference to Edgar Allen Poe, the “master of the macabre” to whose poetry people still flock to enjoy.

What. The Actual. Fuck.

Given, I’m not a literary savant and all, but how does he get to be admired as a master of the macabre but my darkness is viewed as some sort of pessimistic affect? In the words of the murderous Gage Creed in Pet Semetary, NO FAIR!

I came to the conclusion today that the doctor I see is a …PSYCHE!iatrist. Because he’s gotta be fucking with me. I went in, 1.5 mg of Xanax on board because right before we had to leave, Spook decided to have a screaming me about how horribly abusive I am. My sin? Making her put her shoes on the appropriate feet. I am a fucking a monster. But, I went in, a bit calmed yet still on edge. He asks, How are you.

Now, Spook has found books and toys in the office so she sits across the room being quiet, making me look like a histrionic for all my talk about her defiance and hyperactivity. One more reason for me to feel absolutely defeated. I told him, flat out, my energy is up with the Cymbalta and my former knee pain is non existent but I’m not sleeping and I don’t enjoy anything in life.

Now, after seven months of the interrupted sleep…Suddenly, he gives a fuck. He starts asking what I’ve taken. I tell him, making a quip about how I don’t want the Trazadone cos of the hangovers and I’d prefer to avoid the Ambien as I have no desire to sleep and drive. He was quick to point out that all sleep meds cause the hangover and while Ambien causes sleepwalking, all the reports of sleep driving and such are exaggerated and untrue because people mix Ambien with booze and drugs and THAT causes the bad side effects.

Sure. Just like I was totally making it up all the times I was on their assfuck Seroquel and drove over to see my mom yet had no memory of visiting her later and did NOT use a damned bit of booze or drugs.

He has determined Restoril (however it’s spelled) is necessary because I won’t get better until I start sleeping properly. I made it clear I have no use for the morning hangovers as I even get that from Melatonin. He gave zero fucks. I suppose I should whip out the pom poms and cartwheels since finally, the sleep issue is being addressed.

That seemed to be all he wanted to do. Every time I tried to speak, he started to speak, so we kept cutting each other off. But I wasn’t done speaking, so I think he was off base and just didn’t want to listen to what I had to say. I dug my heels in and absolutely demanded something be done about the lingering depression, especially with seasonal affective around the corner.

I asked, what about Wellbutrin, it’s supposedly good for seasonal affective and you suggested it months ago.

SUDDENLY, he says absolutely not as it is contraindicated for those with high anxiety. WTF, dude?

I asked about Depakote, as dual mood stabilizer therapy has worked for me before. He says, “I absolutely won’t prescribe it to women because it causes ovarian cysts.” Um, so the shrinks prior to you doled it out no problem and suddenly it’s a no no for women? HUH?

I asked about adding an other anti depressant, an SSRI with the SNRI, just for the seasonal months. He said it’s a possibility, but for now…Let’s just raise the Cymbalta to 90mg and it can go up to 120.

LAST MONTH HE SAID 60 WAS THE MAX DOSE FOR PSYCHIATRIC TREATMENT, ANY HIGHER WAS PAIN MANAGEMENT!!!!

To add insult to injury, he told me to talk to him toward October about the seasonal since that’s when it would likely be starting up. HELLO? THE POINT IS TO HEAD IT OFF BEFORE IT FUCKING STARTS!

He ushered me out hastily and I asked, “Am I ever gonna enjoy things again?” And he flippantly says, “Yes, you will, you’re never in one mood cycle for too long.”

I BEG YOUR FUCKING PARDON, I’VE BEEN IN A DEPRESSION FOR TEN MONTHS NOW!!!!!!!!!! I’d say that’s pretty goddamned long to be in a mood cycle, especially one where I enjoy nothing, can’t keep up with daily life, and frequently want to drink bleach.

What the fuck is wrong with these doctors? I know damn well what he tells me at every appointment because I come home and fucking blog it! He suggests Wellbutrin…Nope, two months later, not viable. He says 60mg is the max dose of Cymbalta for psych treatment, higher is for pain. Nope, I took that wrong, too. He told me we’d discuss the seasonal thing long before it started. Nope, let’s wait until AFTER it starts, and btw, only treatment is light therapy, if I say otherwise, I’m mad as a hatter.

FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCKITY FUCKING FUCK.

I’ve thought, many times, over the years, that I need to take a voice recorder to every appointment because while I may be shaky at times, I am not prone to making shit up or hallucinating. I damn well know what they tell me, then next appointment, they tell me otherwise, which makes me feel like I am losing my goddamned mind even more. Yet ya know, if I did tape the session, then present them with the proof when they do their PSYCHE!iatrist bullshit, they’d label me paranoid and probably suggest hospitalization rather than admit their own assfuckery.

To say I walked out dissatisfied and pissed off is an understatement. I don’t disagree with the Cymbalta boost, especially since he’s doling it out in 30mg so I can either take sixty a.m. and 30 p.m. or I can do three split doses. That’s cool. (I am out until Monday ‘cos I tried to divide the capsules into the split dose and well, it did not go well.) This restoril (misp?) I’m not too familiar with, he says it’s a benzo for sleep and if it makes me too hungover in the morning, I can take it earlier at night. Yeah, that’s makes sense, let me take it at 7pm to avoid the morning hangover while my child marauds and plunders during my coma time.

Again, wtf are these fuckers smoking?

I’m gonna let that rant go, otherwise I won’t sleep at all.

After that particularly ass trashy dish trip, I came home and tuned it all out. Can’t get the new meds til I have money on Monday. I was deflated, to say the least, as I’d had a lot of hope for this new doc. I just get the feeling he’s doing the drive thru pill pusher thing without regard to what’s going on. Doctors think the therapists should take care of everything but the pills. I’m of the mind that if the pills aren’t working, there’s fuck all the therapist can do. To get the right mix, maybe you spend a few minutes listening to your patient and understanding why they’re having the issues they are. More knowledge about an individual could only help in hastening proper treatment. Too bad logic doesn’t apply in mental healthcare.

I lolled in deflation land for a bit. Then I started doing little things here and there, mainly cat boxes, cleaning the floor a bit. I hit my wall and said, small goal met, time to just be disgusted with it all.

After being good for awhile, Spook started in on me again, about the time I finally started to calm down. It was like, I gotta get out of this house, get her around someone else to drive nuts or I am gonna claw my own eyes out. So I went to R’s so he could swap out my car stereo since the old one was DOA and I still had the good one from the Not So Grand Am fiasco. Pay money for a car and walk away with little more than a Pioneer stereo. Stellar.

While sitting outside, the bugs ate me alive. His wife was sociable but she was either very tired or very pissed that he was wasting his evening on my bidding. In my defense…He said he’d do it after my car broke down. That was a year ago. So pardon me, but waiting patiently for a year gives me the right to kind of jump on the chance to get it done when he’s willing.

In new feline drama…I had two missing kittens this morning, Zatar and Arsenic. Found them in my closet, buried under stuff, where crazy bitch Nightshade packed them. They’re not her kittens. At first, I thought it was some sort of feline grief response as when Brimstone died, Shady had no kittens left. Imagine my shock when digging in my closet turned up two newborn kittens and I didn’t even know she was pregnant again. It’s obvious they are very premature and none of her kittens live, anyway. Gotta wonder why she was hoarding the three month old kittens that belong to Juju in the closet when she had two newbies of her own to care for. I put her in with her noobs repeatedly and she just left them crying, came back to drag Jujus kittens off. Finally, I put her in a pet taxi so the kittens will at least be fed. Shade’s had about fifteen kittens and only two have ever survived, so I don’t hold out much hope.

I’m running a damned cathouse minus the awesome income the ones in Nevada bring in, ffs.

Now…I think it’s bedtime. I’m cooked. Cat drama, doctor assfuckery, and I still haven’t worked in a shower. Damn it. I am gonna try to sleep tonight with .25 of Xanax, nothing more. The morning hangovers suck worse than going on a week long bender with vodka. And hopefully tonight, I won’t have nightmares about Spook’s little friend J breaking in and trying to stab me in my sleep.

It’s totally normal to have dreams about being murdered by a five year old, right? Bet my doctor would say it is.

After making my last post, I worked a 3 pm to 11:30 pm shift at work. I talked non-stop to my coworkers, in epic oversharing mode. I clocked out at 11:30 and drove home at 30% over the speed limit. My excess energy was spilling out of my left hand with its flapping and finger-tapping. […]